


Ilrhenir, Son of Aragorn

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Animals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, War of the Ring, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilrhenir goes south to Minas Tirith to find his father, a man named Strider and gets embroiled in the war against the forces of Isengard and Mordor, discovering who Aragorn is. Warnings for adult content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Isen

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Ilrhenir Son of Aragorn:  
   
Chapter 1

 

   
Ilrhenir lay there pretending to be asleep, or unconscious rather, considering the beating he’d just received from the horrible creatures who had him captive. Over the last day and night since his capture, he’d discovered that they tended to ignore him after they thought he had lost consciousness. But given a single hint that he was waking, they started in again on the torment, even whilst he was being marched straight through what his pitiful little map had once indicated was the Gap of Rohan.  
   
That is, before they had stripped him of his map along with all the rest of his belongings.  
In fact, he had been robbed of everything but his threadbare shirt, leather jerkin and simple brown breeches. Even his shoes were stolen, making the march they kept up, that much more miserable in the cold of late February.  
   
He lay as still as the radiating pain would permit, fighting the urge to find a position that hurt less on the cold, rocky ground. It was difficult to do with his hands bound before him and his bare feet numb with the cold, but eventually he was able to block out his body’s numerous complaints. And as he metered his breathing as best he could to emulate sleep, he pondered the last several weeks since leaving Bree.  
   
Ilrhenir stifled a sob as images of his mother, Jenna, flooded over him. Some memories were calming and maternally warm, some indicative of her last horrible few hours of life. He had been surprised, since her death, to find the happy memories more painful than the mournful ones. Too much of a reminder of a woman who deserved a beautiful life but was instead granted one cut short by poverty and violence. But though she had lived a harsh existence, she was a soft spoken, gentle natured woman. Small in frame but giant in spirit and he missed her with an ache that blinded him to the physical pain of the wounds inflicted by his current predicament.  
   
As oblivion claimed him, he wondered if she was at peace. And for the first time since her passing, he sincerely wished he’d joined her that night in her eternal rest. The bone deep weariness that seemed to wick into his very heart from the abuse of his captors didn’t seem to abate with just sleeping, and Ilrhenir realized with grim satisfaction that the torment could not go on indefinitely before some serious injury caused him to join her in her mortal slumber.  
   
………………………………................................................................................................  
   
Despite the pain from the previous night’s abuses, Ilrhenir had slept soundly once he had succumbed, not harried by a single evil dream in his exhausted state. So it was a shock to be woken by an explosion of pain in his ribs and a foul voice grunting at him from above in a language that crudely mimicked his own. The creature drew back its thick iron toed boot to kick him a second time. “On yer feet, pretty man-child! The White Hand will want ta have a look at ye soon. So up with'e!” The monster grinned cruelly with sharp, yellow teeth and hard, luminescent eyes.  
   
Ilrhenir rolled slowly to his knees, apparently a bit too slowly. For the beast suddenly grabbed him by his jerkin and hauled him to his feet, pushing him forward. His breath still driven away by the force of the kick that had woken him, he stood there gaping, trying to force air back into his lungs, and by the time he drew his first fiery breath he was already marching.  
Throughout the day, Ilrhenir was guided north and east. He traveled on and the hours melted away in one long blur of discomfort. And finally, one of the creatures pressed a black leather wineskin into Ilrhenir's swollen hands, instructing gruffly for him to drink. He did not immediately notice the creature offering the drink, for he was dazed by the harsh march, as well as a lack of any real nourishment since his capture. His amassing injuries and the cold that soaked up into his legs from the frozen ground beneath his bared feet only added to his distracted haze, and Ilrhenir had only just realized that they’d called a halt when a dizzying blow upside his head sprawled him on the ground and brought him round to the fact that he was being spoken to.  
   
“Drink, you maggot! Or I’ll lay into ye proper!” The creature again pressed the skin to Ilrhenir.  
   
Ilrhenir stared owlishly for a moment and then, suddenly thirsty beyond measure, he took the skin and rabidly pulled the cork on it, tipping it back and gulping thirstily. He choked and gagged as, instead of water, a bitter, burning liquid scorched a path down his throat, stealing his breath away.  
   
As he coughed and sputtered, hot anger rose in him at the laughter of the foul creatures. Ilrhenir had endured enough and now his fear and hurt were buried behind the sting of one final blow to his dignity. At least if he angered them enough, he might goad them into killing him swiftly, before being taken to meet this heinous ‘white hand’ they had spoken of. Ilrhenir stood up suddenly, not associating the renewed strength in his limbs with the dark, burning liquor, and he flung the wineskin back at the creature before him. He swayed for a moment, but met the creature’s gaze and growled aloud. “What was that awful, foul brew?! Is it not enough that you steal from me, steal me in truth? Then beat and taunt me at every turn?! Now you must poison me as well?!” Ilrhenir stood there, burning them with his grey gaze, his back straight and his chin raised proudly, his chest heaving and his black hair flowing in the chill, February wind. And for a moment the orcs all stopped.  
   
Then, simultaneously, they all burst into rolls of cruel laughter. One of the largest ones, the leader from what Ilrhenir had been able to tell, hauled up from his seat and tossed aside some dried bit of unidentifiable flesh, charging upon the youth before Ilrhenir could think to move. A thick, greasy claw grabbed Ilrhenir by the front of his stained leather jerkin and shook him with such bone-jarring hardness that his ears rang and wavering spots took up in front of his eyes. “Look’en what we got here lads?”, The grayish monster growled amusedly. “The pretty little whelp’s got some stones, he has! Saruman will see to those though! Have‘im squealin’ like a fresh-cut piglet!” And all of a sudden, Ilrhenir felt the narrow pressure of the edge of a blade press up against the tender flesh between his thighs. He ignored the fear that rallied behind his quickly abating rage, meeting the monster’s gaze, nearly gagging at the stench of the fell creature’s breath as it brought Ilrhenir nose to nose with it. “Unless ye be unfond of them there”, and the blade hiked painfully higher. “Then best ye remember that until Saruman has ye, I do. And I’m over fond of sport, I am. So behave.” And with that, the beast leaned in and drug his slimy, black tongue along Ilrhenir’s cheek, causing the youth to gag and shudder in renewed disgust.  
   
The big orc dropped him, chuckling cruelly, and no sooner had Ilrhenir’s legs set upon the ground then they gave out underneath him. Waiting to pounce, the other beasts then set upon Ilrhenir and he was subjected to another round of torments. The pinching and kicking and scratching all blended together in a blur of agony overtoned by seemingly endless taunts in the creatures’ strange and ugly tongue. A welcome darkness threatened, but the burning liquor staved it off, and no matter what they did this time, Ilrhenir remained awake.  
   
The inability to escape into oblivion in combination with the strange burning of the brew pounding through his veins soon overwhelmed him and for the first time since his capture two nights ago, Ilrhenir allowed himself to weep. This only encouraged the orc’s evil ministrations and sometime during their ever worsening barrage, a vicious kick landed solidly on the back of his head and an excruciating light exploded into Ilrhenir’s misery, leaving his world swimming in a hazy fog that throbbed in his mind to the beat of his racing heart.  
………………………………................................................................................................  
Wakefulness was heralded by a clamorous agony in his head that had almost reached the auspicious status of music. Ilrhenir was sure a pain this loud had to be able to be heard all the way to the stars themselves. He would have vomited but for the blazing weight still in his belly that seemed to sit there like a hot, lead ballast.  
   
Moments passed and he dimly realized that part of the cacophony was indeed without his mind. The dozen creatures who had kidnapped him were surrounded by many more of their unwholesome kind and an animated argument had broken out in their midst. He laid there praying that they would kill each other, if only so that he himself could lie there upon the ground and die in relative peace, free from their loud, growling and barking voices.  
   
Eventually, when Ilrhenir did not die, he reined in his disappointment and experimentally opened one eye to see how late in the day it was and where they had stopped. He was sure that he had probably been thrown, like a sack of grain, over one of their foul shoulders so that their journey north could continue, and he might as well mark his location if he could. A few seconds of painfully bright sunlight burning into his skull, and the swirling images confusing his senses told him that he had either been deposited on some churning hell or his brains were a bit scrambled from the last kick of one of the iron-shod monsters. But all in all, he thought the sun didn’t look much higher in the sky than it had when they were beating him earlier. He doubted they had gone very far at all since then.  
   
Ilrhenir laid there for quite a while as the argument broiled on amongst the beasts. He was unable to move beyond shaking, and so hurt and cold that he didn’t really care to continue trying. After a length of many minutes passed, his body seemed to give up it‘s battle to register through pain, the tally of its injuries. An illusion of a comfortable warmth eventually spread over Ilrhenir and it was long before he vaguely acknowledged a claw cuffing his cheek, followed by muttered curses spilling forth as more of the unknown liquor was poured down his throat. For a moment it seemed all very far away, before the concoction again lent a certain unnatural strength to his limbs.  
   
“C’mon you worm. It’s south now, and probably the stew pot for ye.“ Ilrhenir heard the creature growl, and before he was fully aware of it, Ilrhenir was staggering on unsteady legs, glaring unfocused at an orc he didn‘t recognize, his body a wild mix of coldness and liquor induced febrility.  
   
The passage of the rest of the day was unmarked by Ilrhenir. He did not even acknowledge that indeed the company of orcs was no longer heading northeast but south now. Ilrhenir was wholly unmindful of anything but the fact that they now kept so fast a course that the usual tauntings of his captors were absent. He was too far gone on the liquor and his own weariness to acknowledge anything other than the reprieve from fearful attacks and the intense desire to lie down.  
   
The day did pass, despite his disregard, and when Ilrhenir finally realized that darkness had fallen it was only because the dizzying motion of their march had stopped and the cold within him had intensified with the failing of the sun.  
   
The force of orcs were passing out an evening meal and some creature or another handed Ilrhenir a wad of dark, hard bread and a tin of stale water. The bread he clumsily stuffed down the front of his jerkin in case he managed to free himself, wincing mildly as he remotely realized that several of his nearly unrecognizable fingers must be broken. The cup of water he gulped down in a single, huge swallow.  
   
For a while, Ilrhenir looked at the battered tin cup in his bound hands, abstractly wondering at the fact that he saw two of them dancing before his wavering vision. And then he just collapsed over sideways, laying his head upon the cold ground and reaching around to draw about him the missing threadbare cloak that had been stolen from him days ago.  
   
Ilrhenir was resting peacefully, sure that he could hear Jenna's sweet voice, when quite suddenly, one of the creatures loomed in front of him, seeming to weave in double before Ilrhenir‘s distorted vision. The youth focused hard, realizing that there was actually only one snarling nightmare kneeling there and that it was the leader of the orcs who had captured him, and right about then he was violently rolled and pushed prone on the hard rocky ground. The sharp, uneven surface bit into his face as Ilrhenir struggled as best he could, panic and confusion overriding his fatigue. But every bite, scratch, bruise and break he already possessed was screaming at him as he wriggled helplessly under the odorous weight that was now pinning him across his shoulders and knees. A familiar filthy claw wrapped itself over his mouth, muffling his outcry before it could utter forth. Terror locked Ilrhnir's mind as he felt the creature's other hand slither roughly over his backside, searching greedily for the waist of his breeches.  
   
An oily, grating voice hissed in his ear, the fetid, moist breath almost driving away his senses. “We’re off to meet a force of those horse fucking Rohannian bastards at the Fords of Isen. No time to take ye to Saruman now, Piglet. So I gets my sport after all.”  
And just as the grasping hand found his waistband and was yanking viscously at his breeches to get them down over his hips, the heavy force pinning him down disappeared.  
Despite his impairments, it was only a moment before Ilrhenir righted himself and was skittering backwards, ignoring the waves of lightheadedness and nausea sweeping over him. He backed straight into several orcs who grabbed him and restrained his weak struggling.  
   
One of the new beasts, the one who had yanked Ilrhenir's assailant off of him, was scrabbling about trying to keep purchase over the orc that had seemed bent on his usage. The wrestle was short as others joined the fray, and eventually all was settled. Ilrhenir watched in horror and shamed satisfaction as his assailant was stripped and beaten for the delay he’d caused the company of orcs.  
   
Ilrhenir had barely managed to tear his gaze away from the limping mass of beaten orc that had so nearly ruined him when nearby, harsh words were loudly barked in their guttural tongue, and the march was resumed. Ilrhenir, still dazed, was hefted up and thrown unceremoniously onto a cooking supply wagon, his hands tied above him to the back of the seat brackets by the creature who now had charge of him. He stared at the green-skinned, diminutive orcish mess officer, who chuckled and sneered as he tightened the ropes binding Ilrhenir’s discolored, nearly useless hands to the wagon. “Ole Spurgitz almost had use of ye did he? Ha! Don’t ye be gettin’ too comfy here. Twas only our need to press on as saved yer scrawny hide. I get half a moment and I’ll be about the same. I Likes my man-flesh tenderized afore I cooks it, I do.” And having secured Ilrhenir's hands, the orc then took a moment to grope crudely at Ilrhenir, leaving him shivering from more than just the cold evening air.  
   
Despite the alarming circumstances, Ilrhenir felt a skewed sense of gratitude for the near tragedy that left him tied, albeit uncomfortably to the wagon instead of plodding along miserably on foot. And soon Ilrhenir was taking advantage of his new position, sleeping restfully amid the kegs and pots and utensils and dried foodstuffs. Again, his dreams were sweet rather than foul, images of warm, maternal arms wrapping around him and a soft mellifluous voice guiding him. Ilrhenir imagined he sat and chatted with his mother under the eaves of a low hanging cherry tree in the pink bloom of late spring. And while he slept, his injuries troubled him not.  
   
………………………………................................................................................................  
   
When the morning broke, Ilrhenir actually felt some small bit of rejuvenation. The throbbing in his head was somewhat lessened, the aches in his body had died down to a mere roar that he was actually getting used to, and a small reserve of strength pooled in his abused limbs. Today he would either escape or die trying.  
   
Ilrhenir glared up at his bleeding, inflamed wrists and blackened hands tied to the wagon, wondering the ‘how’ and ‘when’ of his escape. Perhaps Ilrhenir could get the orcs to let him toilet, which the youth needed dearly, and then he would attempt escape. But when he looked for the cook to insist on being set free to see to such needs as he had, Ilrhenir found he was alone on the wagon.  
   
His ineffectual strategizing was interrupted when a sound in the distance redirected his attention and that of the entire camp.  
   
Though he had never heard it before, Ilrhenir knew it at once to be a horn, a battle horn. It had a deep, rich sound that quickened the sluggish blood in his veins, just as he had always expected it might, back in the days when he had sat at the feet of some town skald in Bree and listen to the tales of distant heroes and their deeds.  
   
It sounded again, thrice more, courageously battling the unwholesome monotony of the morning enemy encampment and it was like the breaking of a spell. Suddenly voices rang out, some of them orcish, some of them human, and to Ilrhenir’s surprise and horror as well came the sounds of great wolves, howling in anticipation of blood-spill. All of them were clamoring a call to arms against the source of the inspiring battle horn.  
Now Ilrhenir struggled and craned his body trying to get a view of where he was for he did not remember wolves or men from the blurry images of the previous day. And when he finally was able to twist into an upright position, Ilrhenir's heart sank into a deep, numbing, black hole.  
   
He was tied to a mess wagon in the midst of an giant army entrenched. Countless monstrous visages with pikes and black shields bearing the standard of a white hand, spread out in trenches like concentric scars upon the countryside. Ilrhenir looked further, for as far as his eyes could reach through the vale of morning mist that still blanketed the world about him and all he could see were trenches. His hopes sank as he realized that he would not be able to escape, surrounded by a force this massive. Well then, he thought, I will try, and at least I would meet my death on my feet and not underneath some rutting abomination.  
   
Ilrhenir squinted at the horizon eastward, fighting to clear his blurred vision of the world. Eventually, in the distance, he saw rise out of the thick morning mist, a silver snake of a river that slithered across the countryside bearing down from the north, curving off south of them, traveling into the west until it disappeared from view. Ilrhenir was amazed that they had come all that way in the previous day and night’s travel. Remembering back to his poor scant map, he was sure that the armies of the White Hand were, by his estimation, waiting in lay for some dark battle a mere several leagues north of the Fords of Isen.  
   
There seemed a moment of frozen time to Ilrhenir when he lay there and pondered how best to proceed. And then, the far-off horn blasted again, waking him from his reverie and rousing in him the wish to join those in the distance that came to meet this fell force that held him prisoner. Ilrhenir was no warrior and he had no hope of escape anymore, but somewhere in him stirred the desire to at least die with purpose. In Ilrhenir, awoke the angry yearning to die cutting at the horrid beasts who had tormented him, who had ended his road to reach the city of Minas Tirith and find the man who had unknowingly sired years agone. His mother had bid him do this one last thing in her few final hours of life and these beasts had robbed him of his right to honor her wishes. Ilrhenir knew he would never find his father now, but he was determined to meet death like a man and not some wretched, defeated animal.  
   
It was not long ere Ilrhenir imagined he could just hear the far off clanging of weapons if he strained his ears and he struggled with his bonds, oblivious to the state of his hands or the damage he added to them.  
   
And as the hour rolled on, he began to see a distant line of black, a great host approaching from the west side of the Isen, and suddenly, Ilrhenir realized he did not know if those who sought to fight these monsters were any better, whether they were friend or just more foe. He decided it was too late to ponder on that and in the end, it mattered not. So he kept his plan, in place; to be ready when any minute opportunity showed itself for his freedom.  
   
The young sun shone down upon Ilrhenir but still leant him no warmth and he lay there dazedly for a while, resting from his efforts and distracted from the distant battle with trying to determine just how ruined his hands and indeed the rest of him was. By now, he was weak, and sick, and a fever very separate from the one induced by the orcish liquor began to rage within him, creating a blessedly detached sensation in Ilrhenir. And so he renewed the struggle with his bonds as though his pain belonged to someone else, but still, Ilrhenir made no progress loosening the ropes that tied him so cruelly.  
   
His thrashing about eventually caused Ilrhenir to inadvertently nestle down amidst supplies he had been thrown on top of the night before, and suddenly a sharp pain pricked his side. He looked down to see a small patch of crimson spread at his waist where he had squirmed down through the pile of miscellany to slightly impale himself on a long, ugly butcher knife. He gasped loudly and rolled off the blade, continuing to writhe about, struggling franticly now against the ropes. Suddenly Ilrhenir heard someone approach and he instantly stilled himself, hoping to master his heavy breathing before the nasty creature mounted the back of the cart and found him awake and trying to escape.  
   
As the back of the cart sagged with the weight of the vile creature, Ilrhenir felt his heart leap into his throat. It was the mess cook returned, and it was only a mere moment before the creature scrambled along the piled supplies and was straddling Ilrhenir’s hips. One, sound slap across his face cracked the morning air, stinging Ilrhenir's eyes with it's force. “Open yer eyes, filth! I knows yer awake.”  
   
The orc ran it’s hands roughly down Ilrhenir's torso, popping the toggle buttons off his jerkin with its claws and reminding him of every last grievance along his body. When the soiled claws reached his newly injured waist, Ilrhenir bit back a yelp. The orc looked down and grinned sadistically, grabbing him over the red stain and squeezing. Ilrhenir kept his eyes shut, but his visage twisted in voiceless agony. “Common, you worthless blight! Sing for us.”, it growled lowly, squeezing the wound at Ilrhenir’s waist until tears leaked a trail down the youths dirty, battered face, but even then, only the barest of squeaks uttered from his tight lips.  
   
The orc grunted in rage and reached around, drawing a crude dagger. In an instant, the blade was at Ilrhenir’s throat, pressing sharply under his jaw. Ilrhenir made no noise save the sucking in of his last breath and he held perfectly still, waiting for the sudden sharp ache that would herald the venting of his life’s blood onto the cart where he lay pinned. But instead, the orc suddenly slashed at the rope bindings that secured Ilrhenir to the wagon seat and flipped Ilrhenir’s flailing form over one of the smaller kegs in the back of the cart. Too stupid or too invested in his violence, the orc was oblivious to the fact that with the last of his panicked wits, Ilrhenir had somehow managed to snag the knife that had punctured his waist. It was grasped tightly in one of his half ruined, but free hands .  
The orc quickly cut at the waist on Ilrhenir’s breeches and yanked them down to his thighs, leaving a shallow gash on Ilrhenir’s back where the knife sliced not only the waist-tie on his garment but Ilrhenir’s flesh as well. And as the vulgar beast gripped his backside, digging its claws into the tender flesh of his cheeks, Ilrhenir swung back blindly and somewhat clumsily with the hidden blade, investing it with all his rage and fear and very nearly the last of his strength.  
   
Relief and an odd curiosity peripherally flooded his mind as the blade stopped with a thud, deep in the orc’s tough hide. Time, which had only moments before seemed to pass in a violent whirl, now seemed strangely still and a single last grunt from the orc echoed like an avalanche in Ilrhenir’s ears as he yanked the blade free. Suddenly, the beast fell dead against him, and he lay there for a moment, still pinned over the keg, unsure of how to proceed and half unbelieving the opportunity before him as the rank, sticky flood of orc blood washed over his back.  
   
Precious moments went by before Ilrhenir’s thoughts finally left their entranced dervish to rejoin him in the present. Ilrhenir struggled, aggravating his hurts into a symphony but he eventually was rewarded when the rancid body rolled off of him. Free of the dead monster, he was suddenly taken with the urge to be rid of the gore fouled jerkin and tunic as well. So Ilrhenir cast down the knife and stripped off the garments in maddened haste, as quickly as his swollen, senseless fingers could rip them off. It was only then that he realized his ruined breeches had slid down to his ankles. He had no time or inclination to repair them. He was free and in his wild mind the garments fouled by his captivity were better left behind anyway.  
Peripherally, his thoughts fell on the fact that he was attracting the attention of orcs in the surrounding trenches. And Ilrhenir, now overcome with the horrific dread of being recaptured, took up the knife again and leapt off the cart, oblivious to his nakedness or the jarring pain of the leap. And before the graceless orcs could climb from their trenches he was off, the rush of freedom and consuming panic driving Ilrhenir heedlessly across the pitted terrain towards the horizon, the east, where the sun had risen two hours gone and from whence he had heard the call of the horn.  
   
Though time seemed to freeze for Ilrhenir, the morning and approaching noontide came. Ilrhenir continued to weave frantically across the trench-lines, and all the while he dodged thick orcish arrows and the well hidden, long chasms of pike-armed orcs spanning the green waiting to skewer him, but none pursued him afoot.  
   
Ilrhenir now understood that the plan was to shoot or impale him before he reached the approaching horsemen giving chase to a much smaller troop of retreating orcs only a handful of miles ahead. They intended to do this without disclosing their exact numbers or position by actually giving him chase. And many times they came close to spitting him on their pole-arms or dropping him dead with an arrow shaft twixt his shoulders, but ever he wildly dodged, running on spirit alone.  
   
The sun hung just at midday as he reached and passed the last of the hidden dugouts, and he felt a mad joy leap into his breast at seeing human faces. But his joy was short lived as he felt the sting of an arrow-tine slicing past his brow, leaving a burning wetness at his temple that made his stomach roll. Ilrhenir fought the shadows chasing his consciousness, hoping to reach the human riders. To him they seemed beautiful. They were tall and doughty men who were fair and fierce as the summer sun, riding upon the backs of great grey steeds that appeared to trample the chill vapors and mists beneath their mighty hooves. But daylight wavered in his sight and the pounding in Ilrhenir’s head no longer set a pace for the rhythm of his limbs.  
He faltered and fell, just as the retreating orcs flooded past him, hounded close by the fair cavalry. He would have warned the riders of the enemy entrenched behind him, but for the cold ground rising up to meet him so quickly. Ilrhenir's eyes closed and he only had time to ponder that at least he would be trampled underneath the great grey horses a free man, and then he surrendered to the dark.

.  



	2. The First Battle of the Fords of Isen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilrhenir goes south to Minas Tirith to find his father, a man named Strider and gets embroiled in the war against the forces of Isengard and Mordor, discovering who Aragorn is. Warnings for adult content.

  
Ilrhenir Son of Aragorn  
   
Chapter 2:  
   
Ilrhenir woke shivering with cold and pain; a strange rhythm pounding underneath him that inspired his stomach to heave, despite very its empty state. A heavily accented, loud oath uttered from behind as Ilrhenir leaned over groaning and gagging. “Eorl’s bones, boy! You sully my mount and I’ll set you back upon the ground!”  
   
Ilrhenir squeezed his eyes shut the instant he dared pry them open, the flood of nausea renewed in him by the swiftly passing scenery below. Along with the dizzying, pounding motion, Ilrhenir could smell a strong dusky scent and finally knew it to be the sweating beast under him, working to carry them away.  
   
Away? Immediately his head snapped up and he swept his gaze about them frantically, despite the protests of his body. “Easy there lad. You’re free of those foul beasts.” came a deep voice from behind him again, and for the first time, Ilrhenir noticed the hard heat of the man‘s body at his back and the thick arm cinched firmly round his waist keeping him from falling off the horse.  
   
A moment of panic ricocheted through Ilrhenir as he realized that the man’s other hand held a long blade and not the reins to guide the grey beast, which were secured on a silver saddle ring.  
   
His voice cracked forth in a wild tone. “It’s fine enough not to be driven by those monsters anymore sir, but who is it that drives us now? You, or your horse?” He sat up straight on the saddle and tensed, making his every injury scream.  
   
The Rohannian carrying Ilrhenir on his lap ahead of him, laughed. “Have no worry for our course youngling, we retreat to the Isen atop Naisi, and he is clever and brave and swift. And it is by my legs that I rein him, so refrain from squeezing him so with yours, lest you confuse him.” The Rohannian warrior knew otherwise, but at least the boy made an attempt to relax, he had been easier to bear when unconscious. They were close hounded by the forces of Saruman and in greater number than the Eorlings had anticipated and it did not serve to be struggling with the boy while the possibility of trading blows with the enemy was so near.  
   
Ilrhenir tried to ignore the protests of his injuries at the jarring rhythm of the horse beneath him by focusing on the scene about. The wind blew chill and the sky was a moody slate blue that seemed heavy about him, as though the heavens themselves took bruising exception to the presence of Saruman’s abominations. The rolling turf passing under Naisi’s hooves was still hard with cold, but all the same, it yielded tall greenish grasses that whipped Ilrhenir’s torn, naked feet like countless slender flails. For as far as he could see, the immense grassy ocean continued on east, far past the river that sliced a silvery path through it, south and west.  
   
At a distance behind him, Ilrhenir still heard the faint but harsh exclamations of orcs and men and horses and wolves, mixed with the clash of steel. He craned around to look behind, only to see a great blond head with green eyes flashing sternly, a short-trimmed, yellow beard upon the well turned face. “Mark not their closeness boy, but rest yourself and be ready to dismount when Theodred calls for it.” The man called loudly above the din of wind and hoof beat.  
   
“Theodred?” Ilrhenir inquired through clenched teeth as their mount leapt a small chasm and landed with a jolt that immediately stole his breath, lancing pain throughout him.  
“Theodred, Theoden son.” The man mounted behind him intoned as though that clarified all, as though all should know the name.  
Speaking was hard and uncomfortable, for Ilrhenir had to nearly shout to be heard, so he did not bother to ask who Theodred, or his father Theoden were, he only asked one thing more. “What is your name?”  
   
“Baelorn of the Riddermark, son of Baeorl. And yours? I mark from your speech and your sable tresses that no Rohirric blood flows in your veins, but you are also no Dunland dog either, or else I would have let you perish upon the field.”  
   
   
Cold was stealing over Ilrhenir again and he shivered slightly, chafing his arms with discolored hands that were only now beginning to sharply tingle with renewed sensation, a thing he was beginning to regret. Ilrhenir wondered if conversation was worth the effort, but that it might serve as a welcome distraction from his discomforts. “I…uhmm…. My name is Ilrhenir. I was captured trying to make the Gap of Rohan.”  
   
“Ilrhenir.” Baelorn seemed to roll the word around briefly, giving it new color with the accent of his native tongue. “Tis, a Gondorian name to be sure. What man of Gondor doesn’t know the Gap to be held by Saruman? Or are the men there so few now that they send beardless youths, lone to scout reconnaissance and be captured and tortured so?” Though Ilrhenir did not look back, he could feel Baelorn’s disapproving frown, all the same.  
   
“My lord mistakes my worth.”, Ilrhenir finally called back. “I am but a poor freeman from the north; from Breeland, not from Gondor. I was traveling south to reach Minas Tirith, where I was told that my father helps to hold the white city against the press of Mordor. And I had no knowledge of this Saruman or his black purposes, so I knew not that camping at the pass would find me in the company of those fell creatures.” Suddenly, images of his imprisonment flashed briefly through Ilrhenir’s thoughts stifling his newfound desire for conversation. He seemed to suddenly realize his nakedness and so Ilrhenir wrapped his arms about himself and dropped his chin to his breast, closing his eyes against the memories of his journey.  
Baelorn, sensing the youth’s sudden reluctance, took what he had of Ilrhenir’s story and let it lie. Later, there would be questions and the boy would most likely be carted off to Edoras for the King and Grima to interrogate. So best to let him rest of his ordeal now, as best he could on horseback.  
After a while, their pace slowed some. Haste was still needed but greater was the need to turn and answer those of the pursuing enemy that followed too closely. And for a while, this kept them from making good time to the Fords. Ilrhenir found out, while riding that afternoon, that Baelorn was a member of one of eight cavalry companies that had originally ridden out that day with Theodred, from the Fords of Isen, to meet Saruman’s army. Their aim was to take the fight to Isenguard before the orcish army mustered fully and reached the Fords, but the enemy was further advanced than they had known. Baelorn explained that the Eorlingas had seen Ilrhenir fall on their approach of the trenches and Baelorn had leaned low from his saddle and swept the boy up as he fainted, planning on discarding him if he were already slain. But Ilrhenir had been alive, so Baelorn had fought the orcs with Ilrhenir astride ahead of him. Shortly after that, the Rohirrim had nearly been outflanked as they fought the entrenched orcs. Fresh troops from Isengard had come in from the west and were about to cut off the Rohirrim's only path of retreat to the Fords. But Theodred’s rear cavalry guard had arrived just in time to excavate them, and here they were, retreating to the Fords to make a stand until more forces from Edoras could come to fortify them.  
   
The day was long and harsh but Ilrhenir saw none of the battle up close. Theodred pushed, to the front wall of their retreat, Baelorn and many of the other Rohirrim bearing wounded or drawing rider-less mounts. And eventually the sounds of battle seemed to fade from Ilrhenir somewhat, as Baelorn and others moved on as fast as their mounts would carry them and his fatigue wore away his senses.  
   
To Ilrhenir, Baelorn seemed vaguely dissatisfied with being ordered ahead of the battle but he complied without hesitation and so as twilight approached, they finally made the River Isen, much ahead of the rear guard that engaged the enemy in the distance.  
   
They forded the Isen along an expanse where it widened and shallowed so considerably that a low stone shelf had been built to cross either arm of the great river right where it was split in twain by a large islet. The Fords of Isen were actually possessed of bridgeheads to mark the stoney causeway on both the east and west banks. And as they passed the western bridgehead, through to the large eyot in the center of the Ford, Ilrhenir watched Theodred call orders while dismounting his great grey stallion. Ilrhenir didn’t understand all of the thick sounding language of the Rohirrim, but he caught the odd word and watched with excited interest as all riders but those carrying injured comrades climbed off their steeds and sent their horses with the wounded across the eastern bank.  
   
After crossing, Baelorn climbed off Naisi and helped Ilrhenir to dismount. It was then that Ilrhenir realized his legs were like unto water, and if not for the Rohirric cavalryman scooping an iron arm under him in support, The youth would have fallen to the ground. With an arm still under Ilrhenir's shoulders, Baelorn took Naisi's reins and started to walk away from the eastern shore, but Ilrhenir was reluctant to be led away.  
“By the look of you boy, you have seen much evil recently. You are taken with fever and the cold and should come away to the healer’s tents to be tended.”  
   
Ilrhenir looked up at Baelorn, realizing for the first time how the man towered above him, but he lifted his chin and gave him a look of stern resolution. “No Sir, Baelorn. I…I thank you, but if they breech the Ford….. then I would rather know it and fall here fighting than be with the wounded, either recaptured or slain in my sleep.”  
   
Baelorn snorted indignantly, but with a newfound respect for the boy’s courage, though he also wondered if the boy weren't simply reluctant to have the healer's intimate ministrations after his captivity at the hands of Saruman's abominations. Though he did not suggest this. “You are possessed of a boldness befitting our own lads, boy. But fear not, the forces of Saruman will not take the Ford this day, though the cost be mighty. Theodred is too great for the likes of those scum. Come away and you may be tended and fed.” But when Baelorn looked into the youths haunted, bruised features he sensed that Ilrhenir would not be budged without a fight, for whatever reason. So, knowing that his charge would not and could not escape, Baelorn eased Ilrhenir to the ground and removed his cloak. He then gently clasped it about the boy’s battered, naked shoulders and handed him a long, beautifully crafted knife from his belt. “Keep the blade for a while and rest here a moment. I will muster some clothing and food and return shortly. Though I doubt that we have cloths to match your…uhm… conservative stature.” He smiled reassuringly and turned to Naisi. Baelorn reached for his waterskin off his saddle, and then remembered suddenly that in all the long ride that must have covered at least seven leagues back from the orc trenches, Ilrhenir had never once complained of thirst. For that matter, beyond groaning occasionally, Ilrhenir had not once complained of his hurts, of which Baelorn had seen were many. Baelorn untied his waterskin, took a long draught himself and then handed the remainder to Ilrhenir, leading Naisi to be tended and tethered. He would return soon with supper for them both and a healer to escort the boy regardless.  
   
Ilrhenir sat upon the cold ground, with Baelorn’s cloak drawn tight about him, sipping gratefully from the waterskin held tenuously in one swollen hand, with the blade grasped in the other. He sat there ruminating darkly, his mind flitting from one terrible memory to the next, oblivious to the stares he was getting from passing men.  
   
From the raised east bank, he could just make out the man Baelorn had that afternoon named Grimbold, leading the rearmost force to surrender their mounts over the Ford in order to fortify the infantry holding the west bank. Ilrhenir watched Theodred, standing with his many men further back on the shores of the islet, intending to keep the ford there should the fortification of the west bank not hold. Already, on Ilrhenir’s side, the east bank infantry were standing ready to repel any that made it past the first two fortifications.  
As cavalrymen carrying wounded or leading extra mounts shed their burdens, they were either sent to eat and rest, or join on foot the stand of men holding the eastern bridgehead of the Ford.  
   
Ilrhenir watched the west bank a while longer before his eyes began to flutter under the weight of exhaustion. And just as his aching, cold limbs seemed to surrender, he was jarred suddenly by the screams of horses and the chilling howl of wolves nearby. Ilrhenir looked immediately north knowing that no horses remained on the west bank, and to his horror he saw the pickets of Rohannian horses ravaged by Dunlanders and orcs riding massive, yellow eyed wolves. They had come down from Isengard along the east bank of the Isen and so had taken the encampment unawares.  
   
Behind the murderous wave of wolf riders and Dunlanders came two battalions of the giant orcs wearing the livery of Saruman, wading into the fray . Except for those few still mounted, sent across from the western battlefield with horses and wounded, there was little or no mounted attack to be made by the Rohirrim who’s steeds were now mostly slain or scattered, and those few mounted riders defending the garrison were soon scattered, much as their horses. Those riders who remained alive and unscattered were relentlessly pursued southwest, along the course of the Isen by the Uruks. So the main resistance to the easterly force of Saruman’s army was the Eastern infantry.  
   
Ilrhenir scrambled to his cold-numbed feet as best he could and pressed himself to the lea side of the bridgehead and watched. And it was at that moment that he realized all was lost for these men, whoever they were, and lost for himself as well. So Ilrehnir, tightly gripping the long knife, tried to decide where best to wait for his end. He looked on the islet to Theodred and his company, who where waiting to face any orcs that broke  
through the west bank fortification, and then he looked across the east bank, where the unprepared garrison was striving to overcome the Uruks, mounted Dunlanders, and Wolfriders.  
   
“Well!" He suddenly had a mind to shout, his fear and anger giving him a voice. "No need to meet death on the Ford below when it’s been good enough to come seeking me here.” And with his mother’s name on his lips, Ilrhenir ran to join the waves of men and orcs and wolves all hacking and rending and bleeding in a maddening swirl of violence that immediately stripped away his senses.  
   
The battle would have been horrid by light of day, but by twilight it was far worse. Ilrhenir found himself at times hesitating, unsure that who he was facing was not Rohirric, and more than once, they had been. Amid the screams of the triumphant and the dying came another kind of sound, the mad wail of someone who had never before experienced such violence wrought, and who was being lost in it now. Ilrhenir had shifted into a wild ferocity where bloodshed was at once the source of his grief and its outlet.  
   
He counted no blows delivered and felt none taken, though in fact Ilrhenir had received several. None of them were mortal of themselves, but coupled together and in combination with his last few day’s trials, he was sorely spent, though his body knew not what his mind would not let it. So Ilrhenir fought on, even as he was driven back, stumbling with exhaustion, weeping with battle madness, and hewing as though demon possessed.  
   
And all along Ilrhenir was pressed, with the Rohirrim, back towards the east bank of the Fords, pinned against the river. Those on foot who remained alive were then driven across the eastern bank, onto the Fords themselves, crushed in between the forces of Saruman on either side of the Isen. As Ilrhenir, along with the flood of retreating Rohirrim reached the eyot, they all heard the triumphant yells of the orcs and Dunlanders crying out their dark joy at having taken the east bank.  
   
Upon reaching the broad eyot, and butting up against Theodred and his company Ilrhenir turned to face the pursuing enemy, having run out of room to retreat. And it was fortunate that he did, for just then emerged onto the Fords the most fell enemy yet. A company of men who seemed half-orc, all garbed in heavy, black chain, armed with massive, black battleaxes flooded down over the east bank through a parting in the waves of wolf riders, Dunlanders and Uruks. If not for Ilrhenir’s agility, he would have surely fallen right then. Without armor and indeed unclothed but for Baelorn‘s cloak, to have taken a single blow from one of the enormous orc-men would have proved instantly fatal, but though strong beyond measure, they were not nearly so light of foot as he. And Ilrhenir dodged the creatures like his feet were graced by the First Born themselves.  
Unfortunately, Ilrhenir’s knife was of no avail against the heavy chain they wore and his battle-born strength was quickly ebbing as blood fled his body and his fever threatened to replace the fire of battle lust in his veins with one of its own.  
   
And just when Ilrhenir dodged the onslaught of an orc-man‘s axe blade and tripped, falling to the blood-muddied ground, he felt the hard length of the flat of a sword blade underneath his palm. Ilrhenir swiftly put aside the assurance that his end had come at last, and pulled his gaze away from the creature swinging the giant gore-bathed axe above its head for one last death blow. and he looked upon what he had tripped over. Ilrhenir had fallen over the body of a slain Rohirrim and it was the dead man’s sword that he now felt beneath his hand. Instinctively, Ilrhenir rolled out of the downward path of the next axe swing, with the crimson soaked blade of the dead warrior in hand, and he discarded Baelorn’s beautiful knife. The orc-man did not immediately recover for a third swing for his axe blade was now hung up in the sundered carcass of the fallen Rohirrim. That was all the delay that Ilrhenir needed. Still lying on his back, he swung upwards in an arc with all the hate and anger within him, and watched in detached satisfaction as the orc-man’s head parted company with his body issuing forth a fountainous spray of black blood before the mail clad form collapsed.  
   
And so it went on for some minutes, Ilrhenir slashing blindly, madly at the enemy until, through his weary recklessness came a voice to his ears, as clear and inspiring as the battle horn he had heard ring out earlier that morning. “To me, Eorlingas!”, cried Theodred. The command was in Rohannian and therefore unknown to him, but Ilrhenir caught the word Eorlingas, which he knew, from Baelorn, was what the Rohirrim called themselves. Ilrhenir prayed it was a cry to muster at Theodred’s side and not some other command for he lacked the strength to do aught but heed a the call to wind his way wearily toward the center of the islet.  
   
Ilrhenir tried to advance quickly toward the intrepid voice, franticly weaving and dodging between assailants only to be nigh when Theodred disappeared, hopelessly surrounded by axe wielding orc-men smiting ruthlessly at the Rohirric leader. Suddenly, through the orcish melee burst Grimbold with two other Rohirrim in tow, answering his lord‘s summons all the way from the west bank, and they fell upon the enemy with the fury of ten men each. Ilrhenir watched as the orc-men surrounding the Theodred were swiftly slain, but it was too late, for there lifeless, lay Theodred, Theoden son, with a foul and mortal wound upon him.  
   
None took time to grieve, for the battle was still on. The Isengarders did not relent for having killed their enemy's leader, there were more to replace the orc-men slain by Grimbold.  
And just as Ilrhenir’s knees buckled and the world swam, overwhelmed by pain and his last ounce of strength long ago spent, the onslaught suddenly stopped. The orc who stood over him ready to strike turned in half swing to the sound of its fell brethren issuing the call to retreat. It was then that Ilrhenir looked upon the east bank and saw a great white standard flowing like a beacon from the fresh host of Rohirrim smiting and scattering Saruman’s forces from on high.  
   
And as the forces of Isengard along the east bank retreated from the Fords, hounded by two of the fresh companies from Edoras, Ilrhenir began crawling painfully to his feet to make his way across the blood soaked, body littered ground of the islet. He aimed himself at the center of the eyot where the Grimbold and the other survivors were gathered about their fallen Prince, still fighting to keep possession of his body from the last body of orcish soldiers that had not retreated.  
Suddenly a rain of dismounted Riddermark from the new host pelted across the east bridgehead of the Ford and as they reached the islet, a strong arm hoisted Ilrhenir up and he looked into the concerned visage of the very last person he expected to see.  
   
“Baelorn….” Ilrhenir gasped weakly, his entire form afire.  
   
“So, you are much harder slain than it might seem, Ilrhenir. This makes me glad.” And with that, Baelorn hefted the light form of Ilrhenir up over his shoulder.  
   
The rest of the battle was short and when they reached the center depression on the eyot where Theodred lay, Ilrhenir was lowered onto the ground amid many who had silently bowed their heads to their dead prince.  
   
Ilrhenir was vaguely aware that Baelorn was being given cloaks from some of the surviving men, which he tightly wrapped round the bleeding youth. Ilrhenir would have attempted to protest but he was drowned out by the surprised gasps of many men as Theodred stirred when they lifted his supposedly dead form up off the ground. They instantly laid him gently down again and Grimbold knelt at his side, taking care, but searching his wound to see if it had been less severe than it had at first looked. As he spied the axe wound, Grimbold’s expression of hope turned bleak. And as his lord prince opened his eyes, Grimbold took Theodred’s pale hand between his own two and brought it to his brow. Theodred looked upon Grimbold with a distant gaze and spoke. “Let me lie here…to keep the Fords till Eomer comes!” Theodred gasped one more shuddering breath and as night came fully upon them all, Theodred, Theoden son closed his eyes and died.  
   
At that moment, a harsh, chilling horn was barely noticed in the distance, heralding the retreat of the forces of Saruman along the west bank as they withdrew into the night.  
The Rhohirrim still held the Fords of Isen, but at a great cost. Many of their men were dead or scattered, most of their horses were also perished, and their King’s son slain.  
   
Very quietly, Ilrhenir wept as he lay there, and he was not alone in this. He wept for the casualties of the day, the warriors who had lost their beloved leader and for the slain Rohirric horses who had been at least as valiant as their masters. He also wept for himself, and all that he had been forced to see over the last four days.  
   
Eventually, as Ilrhenir lay there on the ground beside Baelorn, he felt the pain recede from his weary limbs, and much like the day before, a calming warmth stole over him replacing the bone-deep chill. And even as in the day before, someone was there to interrupt the sudden sense of contentment, though this time it was Baelorn speaking to him and gently cuffing his cheek, rather than some orc slapping him roughly and forcing a vile liquor down him. “Stay awake lad.” Ilrhenir heard the distress in Baelorn’s voice as if from a great distance. “I know that you are weary Ilrhenir, and I would let you rest but that I mislike this sleep that comes over you. It speaks to me too much of our fallen lord’s slumber.”  
   
But Ilrhenir did not rouse himself. He had neither the desire nor the strength.  
“Lord Grimbold! Lord Elfhelm! I have one here who needs our aid!” In the midst of attending Theodred’s body, they looked up at Baelorn's call.  
   
“Is that the boy you rescued at the trenches this morn?!”, asked Grimbold, a look of utter astonishment taking his features as he noticed the lad for the first time. He couldn’t imagine how the boy had survived the evening’s battle.  
   
Baelorn slid an arm underneath the cocoon of cloaks that surrounded Ilrhenir and drew him up, giving him a sharp shake. “Indeed Grimbold, but he leaves us this night if we do not aid him now!” Elfhelm nodded that he would tend their prince’s body, and so Grimbold rose and came to kneel next to Ilrhenir and Baelorn. Grimbold knew that there would be many to tend this night as well as a second attack to watch for, and if the youth was too far gone, Grimbold would not wish to waste time lingering doing aught more for the youth than easing his pain ere he died. He indicated impatiently that Baelorn should lie the youth flat upon the ground, and he opened the many cloaks to inspect whether Ilrhenir was too gravely wounded to be saved. A sudden string of quiet expletives escaped Grimbold upon laying eyes on the naked, gore smeared youth, who was nearly consumed in filth off the battlefield.  
   
Ilrhenir was aware of voices over him and oddly gentle hands probing his angry flesh. But he neither understood nor cared what they said, only that they left off aggravating his wounds. To this end, he attempted to push away the intrusive hands.  
   
“Lie still boy.” came a heavily accented voice Ilrhenir did not recognize. Ilrhenir groaned loudly, continuing to feebly squirm against the searching hands.  
   
Grimbold looked at the boy‘s gaunt body, battered and lacerated and he had to wonder why, had to wonder how, the lad was even still alive. Amazement warred with pity in Grimbold, but the truth of the boy’s condition was not to be denied “He still fights, Baelorn. But it seems too long ere he had proper drink, or food from the look of it. And he is taken with a nighty fever from these fouled wounds. As for the wounds themselves, though each one is not great, together they have drained him of much.” Grimbold finished his inspection as gently as he was able and solemnly wrapped the soiled cloaks back around the youth, meeting Baelorn‘s hopeful visage. He sighed, the weight of the entire day seeming to descend upon him with this one final proclamation. “Sadly Baelorn, I suspect that he will be claimed ere dawn.”  
   
“Is there naught that can be done? He fought like the spirit of Eorl himself possessed him this night, and he had no cause. Easily could he have taken a stray mount and fled in the confusion, but he battled all the way to Theodred, and as bravely as any Rohirrim.” Baelorn had seen the spark of the man the boy would soon become and he was shamed to think they might not tend him as he deserved because the Rohirrim had become so distrustful of strangers that they failed to recognize a comrade when one appeared.  
   
Grimbold sighed again, a sad look upon his face and his great shoulders seemed to drag with the weight of the days losses. “Our Prince was felled with one single, sound blow, this lad with many that were lesser, but the effect is the same, Baelorn. However, I will not gainsay you seeking the healer’s help for him, if any healers have survived. But there is naught I can do for him but clean and stitch his wounds, perhaps help ease the fever a little. And you yourself are skilled enough to do that much with supplies at hand and more free than I in your duties. Take him quickly back to camp and see what remains there of the healer’s tent. Tend him there with what supplies you can find.” And with that Grimbold rose and returned to Theodred, passing hasty words with Elfhelm, who started men gathering loose stones from the periphery of the Ford’s causeway to stack upon Theodred in cairn. Grimbold called out to the surrounding men that were still sound of limb that it was time the dead and wounded Rohirrim were gathered, the wounded enemy were dispatched and the camp on the eastern bank salvaged.  
   
Dazed beyond all of the goings on about him, Ilrhenir was annoyed that every time sleep seemed imminent Baelorn interrupted it. And soon he was uttering low curses as Baelorn hefted him up off the bloody eyot and carried him as swiftly as was possible across the eastern Ford and into what remained of their mobile garrison. Ilrhenir just wanted to be left alone to sleep. And despite Grimbold’s declaration, Baelorn chuckled hopefully at Ilrhenir‘s mumbled profanities. “That’s the way of it Ilrhenir. Curse my bones as you like, for it takes a well drawn breath to utter such vindictives.”  
   
   
Baelorn was relieved to find that the large, sage colored infirmary tents were still intact. Though much of the encampment had been trampled, nothing had actually been burned or even destroyed, no doubt the result of the timely arrival of Elfhelm with his additional companies of Riders.  
   
But, Baelorn argued with himself as he bore Ilrhenir toward one of the healer's tents. The forces of Saruman had numbers to withstand against even Elfhelm’s companies, yet they withdrew very suddenly. Therefore, the main intention of the attack, by Baelorn’s estimation, had been to slay Theodred. The sudden ache in his breast reminded Baelorn that Saruman’s forces had very much succeeded.  
   
As he approached and entered the one large infirmary tent, it occurred to Baelorn how swiftly the camp had been set upon. Most of the healers had remained within the tent throughout the day, preparing to receive wounded from the beyond the west bank, and had only just been brought a few dozen or so when the eastern force had attacked. So it was that there were many available cots on which to lay his burden and several healers available to tend Ilrhenir. Though upon unwrapping Ilrhenir of the now blood soaked cloaks to tend his wounds, they were no less dark in their prognosis than Grimbold had been.  
   
Baelorn sat by anxiously, answering what few questions they had about his nakedness and those injuries that seemed less the result of battle. When they had the story from him, such as he knew it; he left to tend to Naisi, grateful to the horse Gods that he had not yet tethered the mount when the attack began.  
   
Baelorn kept his own council, but he knew it was probably the only reason the any of them still lived, for when the attack had scattered what was left of the exhausted cavalry, he had headed to the main road with the intension of riding hard to Helm’s Deep for what aid they could muster. Instead, upon the road he met Elfhelm and his companies who were weary from swift travel and about to turn off south to sup and rest at Hornburg, but who gladly rode instead to the salvation of the failing Eord. Alas that Elfhelm came too late to help save Theodred. But had he not come when he did, all might have been slain to the last man.  
   
After assuring himself that Naisi was happy in the hands of Elfhelm's hostlers that had replaced the ones of Theodred's company that were slain, Baelorn met up with those of his fellows who had survived and were settled, mourning in the intense and brief way that warriors in great peril do, with no time for drawn-out lamentations. Around what few fires that were lit in vigilance against the cold night and the return of the enemy were groups of men who sought the voiceless solace of their living Eorling brothers before seeking their own tents and pallets.  
   
Others still spent a sleepless night waiting for the armies of Saruman to surge over them, attempting to take the Ford again, but when at dawn none had come, Grimbold went about staging rest for each company in turn, and a messenger was sent to Erkenbrand at Helm’s Deep of the high cost paid for the previous day's victory.  
   
It was at dawn when Baelorn was finally ordered to seek his bedroll and he did so greatfully, but not before stopping by the healer’s tent to pay visit to many of his wounded comrades and Ilrhenir as well, if the boy still lived. This time the scene was different. The tent was now full, most cots bearing men who had suffered injuries too great to see them back on duty this day. Some even lay near death, and these men were quartered off towards the rear of the tent where it was quieter and less cramped, separated from the rest of the tent by a great pale screen.  
   
It was there that Baelorn eventually found Ilrhenir. The healers had naught to say save that during the night he had slipped down into a deep sleep, induced by his ordeal and the fever. The later of which, the healers believed would soon rob Ilrhenir of his life. Indeed the healers had thought to see the youth fail with the dawn, but he yet clung to some tenuous thread of life.  
   
Baelorn looked upon the tranquil boy, seeing him clean for the first time, laying as if merely asleep. He wished now that he had kept hold of the lad upon crossing the Fords, but Baelorn was not to know that they would be attacked so quickly. He pushed his guilt aside and sat there for a while talking softly to Ilrhenir until his weariness caused the healers to send him away.  
   
Baelorn slept long and then ate ravenously that day. There was still no sign of Saruman’s armies and so he went to the healer’s tents to visit again before taking up a nighttime guard rotation. There, the sweet tang of sickness and blood mixed with the clarifying, bitter scent of many herbs. The healers were having difficulty with the many poisons used on orcish blades and arrows, and when the orcs had no poison for their blades they often coated them in their own filth, so even Eorlingas barely wounded were now returning with their injuries angry and fouled.  
   
Baelorn wound his way to the back of the tent and traded words with a man in sage and gray robes, one of the healers. He was directed to the corner where they had moved Ilrhenir that day to keep him further away from men bearing a contractible illness that was also spreading through some of the wounded. Baelorn was told that naught had changed about Ilrhenir’s state, he was alive, but nearly gone. And as Baelorn reached the corner, there was an exceptionally broad shouldered youth with the hint of his first beard, in the ash colored robes of an acolyte tending to Ilrhenir. Baelorn went to withdraw, giving them privacy but the young healer waved him over. “Come. Sit. You visited him before, did you not?”  
   
“Aye, and I have come again, only to find him the same.” Baelorn glumly accepted a stool and sat down; looking into Ilrhenir’s mightily bruised but pallid face, framed wildly by damp, inky locks.  
   
“Is that not preferable to finding him passed away?” The broad youth smiled as he tended Ilrhenir, his huge hands promised that he wasn’t done growing by half. But they were gentle hands, languorous in their movements as he traced the wounds, cleansing them, some of which were stitched with black silk thread, some of which were merely bound closed.  
   
More disturbing to Baelorn than the sight of the tended sword wounds, were the myriad black bruises and claw scratches and teeth marks blanketing the sallow, dehydrated flesh. All signs of his captivity at the hands of the orcs.  
   
“I know not how long those foul abominations had hold of him ere he escaped.” Baelorn sighed quietly.  
“No matter now." The young healer said. "For even if he perishes, he will do so a freeman.” The acolyte set aside his cloths to prepare a strong smelling herbal in a ceramic cup.  
   
“If?…" echoed Baelorn. "I am told by your superiors that it is more a matter of when.” He looked on with a seed of hope as the healer carefully propped up Ilrhenir’s shoulder’s and turned back his limp head, spooning a bit of the thin, blackish liquid into his mouth. Large hands stroked firmly at Ilrhenir’s throat until they inspired a swallowing reflex.  
“Do you agree with my mentors? When you look upon him, do you see that it is time for him to die?” The healer asked smoothly as he continued to slowly work the contents of the cup past the pale, cracked lips.  
   
“I see a boy that might have died a hundred times yester eve, but against all odds did not.” Baelorn smiled proudly, despite himself.  
   
“Indeed. That would seem to be the case, since he lives still, despite the dire circumstances. And even if he does perish, I think that he will no go easily, or willingly.”  
   
After a while, he was finished and he laid Ilrhenir back and tucked fresh blankets about him. “Remain a while longer if you wish. I will tell the other healers on the evening watch with me that you are here. And perhaps you might speak with him a little. We believe that even one near death still hears all that goes on about him. He knows that you are here.”  
   
Baelorn nodded. “I can stay but a while before I must take a shift of my own. What is your name?”  
   
“Haimen, Hallen son." He inclined his head and offered the standard greeting between two of their station. "In service.”  
   
“Well met, in service, Haimen, son of Hallen. I am Baelorn, Baeorl son. We are fortunate to have such healers as you to mend our warring.”  
   
Haimen bowed and smiled again carried away the soiled linens and bandages, taking up a long rod of yew. And it was only then that Baelorn had his answer for the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind since first seeing Haimen. Baelorn had paused to wonder why such an extraordinarily stout and hale lad had become an acolyte to the healers, and not learned to fight upon the field of battle instead. But as Baelorn watched the ample youth use the pale staff to guide himself deftly between the beds he realized with no small amount of surprise that Haimen was blind.  
   
Recovering himself, he also realized that Haimen had tended Ilrhenir with an intuitive completeness and compassion that humbled. So it was that he was grateful for the young man’s presence right where he was.  
   
Baelorn sat there with Ilrhenir for another hour, speaking of this or that until he knew that it was drawing upon time for him to take his post. And he left, bidding the withered youth a good rest, free from the darkness of his travels.  
   
Two days more came and went in that fashion. Each morning coming off watch and each evening going back on it, Baelorn would stop by the tent and the healers would proclaim that Ilrhenir would not see another five hours pass. And Baelorn never ceased to be surprised when he returned later to find the Ilrhenir still lying there, clinging ever stubbornly to life, looking very much a fevered corpse, but still drawing one raged breath after another.  
   
Now it was the evening of the third day since the fall of Theodred. Baelorn had a post to hold in two hours time and as he entered the tent and went straight to where he knew the lad to be, Baelorn stopped and a cold weight settled in his chest. Ilrhenir was gone from the corner where they had moved him to days ago, and in fact, he could not spy the dark headed youth amongst any of the occupied cots behind the curtain that separated the gravely ill from those that merely needed rest and care to recover.  
   
Baelorn sadly lowered his head for a moment and gave a silent prayer that Ilrhenir’s spirit had found a worthy rest and eventually he heard the gentle clacking of Haimen’s yew staff upon the surroundings. He opened his green eyes and lifted his head, watching as the young healer made his way over.  
   
“Well met, Baelorn.” The young man seemed genuinely glad to meet him there, clasping a solid hand on his shoulder.  
   
“Not so well met, now that I find your mentor’s mournful proclamations to be finally true.” Baelorn sighed.  
   
Haimen cocked his fair brows, obviously confused. “My Lord?”  
   
“Where have they taken his body, Haimen? I would have him dealt the same honors as any man to fall holding the Fords.”  
   
“Of whom do you speak Baelorn, for we have had a few die this day.” Haimen asked compassionately, a trace of sadness in his unfocused blue eyes.  
   
“Why, I speak of Ilrhenir, the northern lad, of course. I…I hope he passed in his sleep, peaceful and untroubled by his injuries.”  
   
Haimen smiled widely just then. “Come with me Baelorn, and I will take you to him.”  
Baelorn wondered at the smile but followed the acolyte past the partition and out into the main body of the tent. He thought that Haimen would lead him outside to the bier that was parked off to one side. But instead he led him through to yet another row of cots occupied by sleeping men in various states of mend. And to Baelorn’s great surprise and joy, Ilrhenir was amongst them, laying in the natural quiescence of one who is resting deeply after a long toil.  
   
“His fever broke this afternoon and it is believed that given time, his life‘s breath will grow strong again in his breast, Baelorn. He will mend, though the fullness of it will take some time.” Haimen felt for a stool and offered it to Baelorn, a wry grin dimpling his face. “If you will but wait here, I will go for his supper and you may aid him in that, since I have many charges in more dire need of my attention than he.”  
   
“Indeed, good Haimen.” Baelorn smiled widely and chuckled, taking the offered stool.  
“Twoud be a crime to waste your talented ministrations on the merely idle.”  
   
Baelorn sat and waited, and just as he said he would, Haimen eventually meandered over with a tray, atop which was a bowl of dark broth, a mug of some golden tea and a small wad of fair bread made from finely ground wheat. “He may take it all, in fact it is my hope that he does, but it must be slowly at first.” Baelorn nodded and then just as Haimen was retreating a query invaded his thoughts.  
   
“Haimen?”  
   
“Yes Baelorn, what is it?” Haimen turned to face the seated Rohirrim.  
   
“Do I await his wakening to feed him this, or do I rouse him from his much needed rest?”  
   
A deep, warm ripple of laughter emanated from Haimen before he answered with a question of his own. “Baelorn, do you prefer cold soup or hot soup?”  
   
“Why, hot soup, of course.”  
   
“There you have it then. Would you not think that Ilrhenir does as well?” Haimen could not keep the extreme mirth from his voice.  
   
“Indeed.” grumbled Baelorn, an embarrassed flush warming his weathered cheeks. At that moment he was grateful that Haimen couldn’t witness his chagrin.  
   
“Good even, Baelorn.” Haimen walked off whistling a merry tune, trying not to laugh.  
   
“Good even, Haimen” And Baelorn set about rousing Ilrhenir before his dinner chilled.


End file.
